


and so it goes

by SaxuallyActive



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, tbh, the ship is implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:19:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1524260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaxuallyActive/pseuds/SaxuallyActive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But if my silence made you leave<br/>Then that would be my worst mistake<br/>So I will share this room with you<br/>And you can have this heart to break</p>
            </blockquote>





	and so it goes

**Author's Note:**

> To all who enjoy my writings:  
> With this prose, I will be taking a writing hiatus until further notice. I'm not in a good mental state right now and my boyfriend/best friend is leaving for basic training and it's not going over well. I'm so sorry and hopefully things will get better and I will be back.  
> Before you read, please listen to "And So It Goes" by Billy Joel. It really captures what this fic is--it's the essence of a hundred memories crammed into a single piece of work.  
> This fic, while the ship is implied as Brioux, I wrote it with my boyfriend in mind for most of it. He loves this piece and so I found it fitting to post this fic with my hiatus announcement.  
> Please enjoy this and hold on to it dearly, for it is inspired by the purest muse of all.
> 
> Much love and much heart;  
> Katie

Whenever I miss you, I pull on that old hoodie of your’s that you conveniently left at my place the day we got drunk to forget that you got bought out. I usually hide it in the bottom shelf in my closet, and pull it out, shake out the wrinkles, and enjoy you for a while.

There’s a hole in the pocket. There’s also a stain on the right sleeve. It looks like a coffee stain. The Flyers logo on the front is faded and the white is now beige. The black fabric has slowly faded into more of an off-black, like that gross blueish-black colour. My fingertips pick at how the sleeves are slowly tearing, and the tight spaces between stitches are growing into holes that I can stick a pencil through. It’s probably a little big on you, since the equipment manager apparently “ran out of mediums”. But it fits fine on me. It’s just comfy enough to move around in, but not too tight on my arms.

It smells like you. You smell like clean laundry, champagne, a hint of sweat, and sports deodorant. It’s the most beautiful scent that I have ever smelled. The first thing I smell is the deodorant, followed by the sweat (which is probably mine), and then the laundry and champagne come at the same time. You smell clean and dirty at the same time. I bury my face into the fabric and push it as close to my face as humanly possible. It feels like you’re here, and I’m holding you as tight as possible. You’re not a hundred miles away; you’re in my arms again.

I close my eyes with your hoodie on and I can see you looking at me, your upper eyelids sliding down your beautiful, dark eyes. Your smile forms and your teeth peek out from behind your soft, kissable lips. I wish I could push your face to the side and see the scar on the left side of your jaw. There’s also a tiny one on the right side, but I only kiss that one when I get the chance. You think I can’t see it, but I can. I would touch them both, but you’d probably push my hand out of the way, and you would murmur “Mon cher, stop it.” But I would get to see you smile. The sides of your mouth would tighten up your face and I can see your perfectly imperfect teeth.

I imagine placing my hands on your little waist and pulling you a closer to me as humanly possible. I would probably pick on your for something silly, like how your breath usually smells like shit. And you would do the thing. Whenever I make fun of you and you don’t particularly like it, you get that look on your face where you’re trying so hard not to smile, but your pursed lips part for a second and your eyebrows raise and your face gets filled with blood and you become so beautiful. I know you try so hard to be mad at me, but you can’t be mad. It’s a fact. It’s the cutest thing about you. I know you hate it when I call you cute, because you want to be strong and manly, but it makes you even cuter. You’re absolutely precious and I can’t handle it.

I wish I could thumb over all the imperfections and wrinkles in your skin, but I don’t. Because I know it would make you feel “old”. But you’re not old. You’re so young at heart and so lovely that it doesn’t matter. You have the soul of a young boy that just wants to run out in the sun, and the heart of a young boy that’s afraid to fall and skin his knees.

Your short, black hair is probably one of my favourite things about you. Whatever mood you’re in, your hair reflects your mood. It’s really cute (even though you hate it when I call you cute) and whenever I see you, I want to get my fingers tangled in your hair. Whenever you sleep, your hair falls into your face, and the most beautiful thing about you is when I can that hair back behind your ear. Once when you slept, I wrapped a strand of your hair around my pinky and gently twisted at it. You were so calm that I was almost in awe of you. It’s so strange that I love watching you sleep, but I do. You look your best whenever you are dreaming and your consciousness is completely relaxed. I sometimes daydream about what fantasy must be playing in your head, and I secretly hope it’s about me.

You make love seem so effortless and beautiful and that’s what makes you beautiful. Every time I make you smile, it reminds me how beautiful life can be. And this is why I wear our hoodie.


End file.
